


I've run out of dreams

by HistoriaGloria



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Background Barnes/Carter, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Set in the 18 month gap, uncontrollable magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24049120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HistoriaGloria/pseuds/HistoriaGloria
Summary: “Bardic power is, well, it’s sort of emotionally charged?” he explains one late night in Japan, head in Zolf’s lap. The magical lights in the room are low, casting long shadows across Oscar’s face, but his bright blue eyes are as alight as ever.'A study in power, with Oscar and Zolf.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 22
Kudos: 146





	I've run out of dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [All My Choices Lead Me To You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23271553) by [Angel Ascending (angel_in_ink)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_in_ink/pseuds/Angel%20Ascending). 



> Hey everyone!! So, this came about because of my other [zoscar fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23846728) but you don't need to read that first to understand this one! I just like playing about with the ideas of uncontrollable magic!
> 
> Thank you so much to kristsune for all your support, love you! Also, go check out angel-ascending's fic which kinda inspired some of the dramatic uses of magic, because it is absolutely incredible!
> 
> Title is from It's Been A Year by Tom Rosenthal:  
> 'And I've run out of dreams  
> Run out of maps to read  
> Run out of you  
> Run out of you  
> I would give you an Oscar for the movie you made with me  
> The one no one is going to see'

Zolf knows that Wilde’s magic isn’t always controlled.

“Bardic power is, well, it’s sort of emotionally charged?” he explains one late night in Japan, head in Zolf’s lap. The magical lights in the room are low, casting long shadows across Oscar’s face, but his bright blue eyes are as alight as ever. He waves his hands as he talks, little sparks trailing from his fingertips in a perfect display of what he is talking about.

“So, it’s not that I don’t have control, it’s just that when things get somewhat emotional, it goes a little haywire. I think, for me anyway, I don’t know about other bards, that it is connected to vocal expressions? But also, I tend to cast with my voice, unlike some bards who use instruments. I’m not terrible that playing the violin, but honestly, my voice has always been my most powerful weapon. It’s usually contained but I have no idea how much damage I could do if I lost control.”

He’s beautiful like this, excited in a way that Zolf honestly hasn’t seen for some time. It’s almost like a little of his earlier life is peaking through, of the Wilde which was all puns and sarcasm. Zolf may have hated him back then, but this new Wilde is so cold, so tired, so very traumatized that it’s nice to see that again.

“I guess I should keep a closer eye on it, but it hasn’t ever done any serious damage?”

They’re talking about this because earlier, Carter had snuck up behind Wilde, unintentionally, and spoken, causing the bard to startle badly. Oscar had yelped and Carter had jolted, hit by a sharp, short electric shock. It hadn’t hurt him much, but it had started this conversation about power.

“I mean, Carter was fine,” Zolf grunts in reply, sort of hating the fact that he has to speak and disturb the flow that Wilde has. Oscar nods and shuffles a little so his long legs are outstretched down the bed they are sat on.

“I know. It’s not something I have a lot of control over, annoyingly. But I suppose that is the whole point.” He has noticed the sparks now, staring up at them dripping from his fingertips. “How many times have you noticed it?”

Zolf thinks about the way Oscar’s blue eyes flash bright white when he’s angry; the way everything in the room becomes damp when he cries; the crackles of electricity that jump, seemingly at random, through the air when he wakes screaming from a nightmare.

“Enough,” is all he replies, stroking his fingers through his hair. “It’s fine, Wilde. No one can say anything. ‘Sides, sometimes things go screwy with my power too.”

Wilde hums, waving an encouraging hand and Zolf laments the fact that he’s stopped talking. He could listen to Oscar talk for hours.

“Well, um,” the cleric grunts. “If I try and cast too much, everything gets… itchy? Like there are ants under my skin. It’s dangerous, for clerics to reach for too much power. You can quite literally burn up.”

“You best be careful then,” Wilde says and the tone is teasing, but his eyes are deadly serious. Zolf gives a wry smile and just pets Oscar’s hair reassuringly.

“I am.”

* * *

Zolf regrets those words now. His skin is itching and buzzing from used power and they are so close to being surrounded. The Infected are tactically better than they are, they always have been. Wilde is stood next to him, panting quietly, an adamantine dagger gripped tightly in his hand.

Zolf knows that he likes that dagger because it reminds him of who they’ve lost.

Carter is at his back, his own throwing knives in his hands, Barnes beside him with his cutlass drawn.

“What are we going to do here?” the thief hisses sharply.

“Stay together, don’t get taken alive,” Wilde growls back and Zolf can see him wince. There’s not much left in him, he knows that. They’re all exhausted.

“Think we can take them?” Carter says, a disbelieving laugh in his voice.

“We have to try,” Barnes replies and then moves, sword glinting in the sun. And the battle is back on. Zolf fights with the glaive alone, the holy flame catching on the clothes of the Infected. Barnes and Carter tag team, with Barnes catching the attention of the Infected so Carter can drive his blades into the weaker spots. Beside him, Wilde is singing.

His voice is cracked and from the expression Zolf can see from the corner of his eye, the bard’s in pain. But he keeps singing, in a language that Zolf doesn’t speak, but thinks is Gaelic. The air around him is charged, thrumming with power as he sings.

And they’re doing okay, fighting back firmly, when one of the Infected breaks through. Their blade slips under Oscar’s ribs and the song falters, letting the Infected surge forward. Wilde drives that adamantine dagger into the Infected’s throat, stumbling backwards. Behind him, Zolf hears Barnes curse as Carter falls against him, an arrow through his shoulder.

“ _No,”_ he growls and reaches out for that power within him. He’s asked too much of it already, he knows he has, but he can’t let Wilde die. And Carter as well, he supposes. He focuses, casting his healing spell. Oscar coughs but starts to sing with a renewed vigour. Behind him, the thief is cursing but one glance over his shoulder shows that him and Barnes are fighting once more.

Zolf thinks he’s crying.

His face is wet.

He can’t focus on it, too busy fending off the Infected. There are still too many and Zolf has nothing left. That last spell left his insides boiling, his swings shakier than he would like. Carter and Barnes are tiring, blood dripping from wounds where they just weren’t quick enough to move out of the way. And Wilde is crying now too, tears of agony as he tries to keep up the song with a wound in his side and his throat torn up by power. They’re a tight circle, back to back to back as the Infected advance.

And Zolf knows there’s no getting out of this. They will die here because that would be better than becoming empty like the Infected. Beside him, Barnes’ expression is stony as he fights. Carter is quietly cursing as he moves, but he isn’t giving up.

Wilde looks exhausted. But then he meets Zolf’s eyes and something passes between them. An understanding.

And before Zolf can react, Wilde does something _very stupid_.

He gives Zolf a smile and **_screams._**

Wilde’s voice cracks and shatters and breaks.

And around the Infected, the ground does the same, buckling under the power of true, uncontrolled magic. And Zolf thinks back to that conversation they had in the inn, to the loss of control, as Oscar Wilde, one of the most powerful bards he has ever met, willingly sacrifices that control.

He doesn’t have time to pause; Wilde has given them an opening and they have to take it. With the combination of the explosion of power and the quick blades of Barnes and Carter, they manage to send the remaining Infected running, scattering to regroup.

“Yeah, you better fucking run!” Carter calls after them but he’s swaying on his feet, Barnes moving over to support him. Zolf doesn’t feel much better honestly. His cheeks are still wet with tears and when he reaches up to brush them away, things get odd.

His hand is marred by tears which are lightly glowing. Zolf tries not to think about what that means for the amount of power he has used.

That’s when he realises.

It’s too quiet. Wilde isn’t singing or screaming anymore.

The bard is a crumpled form on the floor, at the epicentre of fissured ground, stretching out like a minor earthquake has occurred.

“Wilde?” Barnes is the one to speak, turning back towards him. “Oh fuck.”

Zolf runs over, rolling him on to his back and in doing so, gets a short electric shock. He has to be alive, he has to. Zolf doesn’t think he could take it if he wasn’t, doesn’t think he could bare being useless whilst the bard dies in his arms. So, he rolls him over and presses a hand automatically to his throat, searching for Oscar’s pulse.

It’s unnecessary.

The cleric exhales in relief as Wilde blinks up at him. His eyes are bloodshot and there is blood trickling from the corner of his mouth but he’s conscious.

“You _fucking idiot_ ,” Zolf growls and Wilde reaches up to wipe away the glowing tears.

“Mmhm,” he croaks out but it looks like his voice is completely gone.

“Don’t speak, you’ll only hurt yourself more.”

“You’re… glowing,” Oscar manages to whisper, just loud enough that Zolf can hear. “Eyes.”

“Yeah, asked ‘whatever it is I ask’ for too much, whatever, I’ll be fine. You’re the one who just nearly killed himself using uncontrolled magic.” Wilde smiles but it doesn’t quite land as his teeth are stained with blood.

“Worked though…”

“Don’t you fucking dare do that again,” Zolf hisses, pressing his head to Wilde’s, tears falling now. They still glow faintly as they drip onto Oscar’s cheek.

“Zolf…” he breathes, the sound so soft that he barely catches it.

“Shh, Oscar. You hush now, you’ve wrecked your voice. We're safe.” And so, Wilde goes quiet, shifting just a little to press his lips to Zolf’s.

Later, there will be quarantine and arguments. There’ll be side-long glances from Carter and Barnes (not that they can speak) and long stretches of uncomfortable silence.

But right now, Zolf kisses Wilde right back, uncaring of the way that both of them are shaking from the amount of power they have used, uncaring of blood on his lips, uncaring of the whistle of Carter from behind them.

They are both alive and that’s what matters.

**Author's Note:**

> Come and bother me on [tumblr](https://historia-gloria.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/HistoriaGloria)! I am always here for a chat!


End file.
